The Skin of Water: Defending The Dreamcatchers Third Edition

By Cristina Salat

Leaving the New Mexico pueblo where she was born for the streets of San Francisco, Lisel Martinez searches for a life different than the one that seems destined to be her fate. Isn't it time the human family put aside differences to co-create something better than this ongoing dystopia where hardly anyone's happy, safe, or doing what they love?

 

Fiction with an edge of Truth.

 

From the author of the 'Gathering The Dreamcatchers' companion novels/novellas, 'The World Is Beautiful' illustrated non-fiction, and many other fine books, films, Green Flame Omnimedia slims, and compilations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Green Flame Omnimedia
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223895770

Cristina Salat

As a woman of the wind, I have enjoyed years navigating the urban jungles and deep blue seas I call home.Website: https://cristinasalat.wixsite.com/website Eclectic e-store: https://livefromthevolcano.ecrater.com/

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE COLORS OF DREAMTIME

The sign:  WELCOME KNOCKOUT STUDENTS! flaps against a gray iron gate. Stone steps lead into the basement of a small pink and gray church. I stand at the top, thinking about going in.

The air is cold and foggy.

This is not New Mexico where hot sun twists through piñon pine, cedar, cottonwoods, spicing it golden.

They will want me to speak.

California is all about talking. I have two tones: quiet and anxious. They will want me to speak when what I know how to do is hide.

People here run their lives in color; mine has long been a shadowy stream of black & white: background hum. I am comfortable with half moons of dirt rich and dark under my fingernails, feathers and stones on a clean windowsill. My spirit knows how to breathe where bright skies bloom day and night dotting land the acrylic colors of chili stands, adobe pueblos, and Taco Bells, acequias bringing water to thirsty crops from Taos to San Felipe, Santa Ana to Picuris.

It is a land afraid of nothing.

I stand before the iron gate at the top of stone steps leading down into the basement of a pink and gray church in San Francisco.

The sign flaps.

I have not come here to talk.

Anything I would say is so insane, my life so not finished, there is no way to begin to tell it.

Just fear, Nani would laugh at the bird-beat of my heart.

Grandmothers are afraid of nothing.

No rules, no tricksters, no snakes, no men with beer ever keep her from a walk up the mountain on moonlit nights.

But living is easier when you’re old.

By then pretty much any bad thing that’s going to happen to you already has.

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CHAPTER 2

HOLLOW BONES

Stacks of metal chairs lean against a chipped piano. A large gray gym mat covers the floor. Mostly white women sit on the mat in a circle, fastening strips of duct tape to their clothing. A woman with skin the color of black plum speaks.

How many of you are nervous? she asks.

The class has already begun. I have arrived on indian time.

Laughter buzzes. Hands raise.

My bones are a hollow small sparrow's bones. Someone passes the duct tape my way. Mark preexisting injuries, a woman whispers. The others have taped ankles, shoulders, backs.

I do not ride horses. I do not stay out late with a band. I am not someone who rough and tumbles for fun. I plant gardens. I draw, read, write poems, paint. I have no injuries that would show.

Let me reassure you, the plum-colored woman smiles, showing off a gold front tooth. We won’t be doing anything in this class that you can’t handle. But we will be dispelling many myths, not the least of which is: A Woman Can’t Defend Herself Against A Man.  So, let’s take a few minutes to introduce ourselves and say why we’re here. I’ll start. I’m Denise.

In my mind, a train runs on silver rails, clacketyclack, clacketyclack, clacketyclack. The others fill the air with words.

Why am I here? Is it because of Michael? Or Juice?

Across the circle a girl with eyes the color of amber stares at me. She has corn-colored hair, skin like fry bread dough. She is wearing a green sweatshirt and sweatpants that look brand new.

My long legs and big feet are encased in faded blue sweatpants and black sneakers from a Free Box, and I am wearing a Sangre de Cristos t-shirt from back home. My hair is one long thick braid down my back, the skin under my arms is wet. In my mind, boots crunch through tumbleweed over soda cans on a road my father used to walk, picking up garbage.  A road where cars can pass for miles under a wide silent sky.

The last time I walked that road my insides were throbbing.

In the basement of the small church, an old woman stares at the veins on the back of her hands. My name is Florence, she says. Before I die, I want to know if there was something I could have done to stop my husband from hurting me.

This class is not about blaming ourselves for what we did or didn’t do in the past, the plum-colored woman with the gold tooth says. It’s about learning how to keep ourselves safe now, and in the future.

My bones creak, as if to widen. Cold metal flavors my tongue. I am hugging my knees.

Joe, we’re ready for you! the instructor-lady calls.

A door at the far end of the church basement opens and a gigantic creature in a silver moon suit charges into the room.

Women shrink back as he thunders onto the mat and glares around our circle through mesh-covered holes in the helmet.

The room smells like shampoo, like blood, like drowning.

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CHAPTER 3

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

The man takes off his padded helmet.

I’m Joe, he says, sitting down next to the plum-colored woman, whose name is Denise.

I have closed my eyes to silence the silvery sounds in my head. Now I open them.

I’m a computer programmer and a black belt in judo and karate, Joe says. And I’m really happy to be part of this program. My girlfriend was raped two years ago by someone she knew, and we’ve spent a lot of these past two years dealing with that. Working with Knockout is my way of standing up against violence.

He has kind eyes.

I study the black canvas sneakers I fished from the Free Box. They are too big, even with extra thick socks. Maybe next week I should wear two pairs.

New Mexico was an endless dark ribbon of highway stretched before me, lit by moon, when I left. My one hand cradled Little Bear in my pocket. The other held on to the straps of the bag on my back, the knapsack I used for school. It usually held books.

I wanted to be home. Tucked away under the covers with a good book, freshly showered and clean.

Instead, I put one foot in front of the other, my insides dripping into a pad between my legs.

It was a clear night, sprinkled with stars.

Sheltered by roadside brush, from time to time I pulled down my underwear and jeans, and peeled adhesive off a fresh pad. When she was younger, my grandmother would feed her flow to the land. Her garden always had the tallest corn, the ripest tomatoes, the fattest, greenest lettuce.

Nothing as nourishing as a woman’s monthly, she would nod, hands clasped over her belly. Food for the earth, for what is yet to be.

Crumpling a used pad, I stuffed it into a side pocket on my knapsack, then headed back to the road after headlights had passed.

In this class I’ll have a split personality, Joe explains. Without the helmet, I’m Joe. I’ll be talking in the circle and helping you through drills. But when I put the helmet on, I’m your attacker. I’ll be doing my best to break your spirit. It’s either you or me, and you’re here to learn to defend yourselves, so don’t apologize for beating me to a pulp.

Around the mat, women titter nervously. The man's large padded hands rest against a large padded helmet.

The first techniques we’ll learn are: a solid knee to the groin, and how to bite and elbow your way out of a hold from behind. Joe puts the helmet back on.

Denise demonstrates.

He grabs her, locking her short round body against his gigantic silver one.

Magically she frees herself, yelling for someone to call the police.

It is like TV. I watch, not believing.

We form a line. I am in the middle, but Denise calls me first.

I step onto the mat.

The man in the silver moon suit shakes a fist.

My body is shaking.

Any injuries? Denise asks, turning me to face away from him.

The movement of my head says no.

Lisel’s ready, she says, stepping back.

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CHAPTER 4

DREAMCATCHERS

The home I lived in every day of my life until one Monday in March was a thin house with a wood stove and wood floors, not one of the pueblo’s solid mud and stone squares, like where my grandmother lived.

In our house, me and my dad's, something was always breaking down. But dreamcatchers hung at the windows, and my father’s stone carvings sat pretty and smooth, filling the shelves.

The bed in my room looked out over sagebrush and yucca, the sheets smelling of fresh laundry soap and me, only me.

That day in March, a gentle breeze caressed my hair (thick as horse straw, my father used to say) as I came round the bend to see a maroon-colored car parked by my father’s truck.  A maroon-colored car with its trunk open.

The front door to the house and screen door were open too, not how I'd left them. Stuff — clothes, furniture, books — was piled high on the ground outside.

I stared at the pile. My father’s work table. Our black rubber boots. Rusty pliers.

Sometimes in the desert, when the wind shifts with unforeseen change, at first, you are confused.

In the small pink and gray church many miles away, massive arms leap around me and nail me against a stranger. He is big and hard as a living wall.

We fall to the ground.

A bulge presses into my lower back. A hand covers my mouth. Far away are whispering, watching voices.

Then Denise yells right in my ear. Bite! Hard!

I twist my head until my mouth touches something and my teeth sink in.

My gums ache from the pressure, but my teeth do not break through the duct tape and padding, though the man howls and yanks his arm away as if they have.

Elbow! Denise yells, and the class cheers.

And suddenly I get it.

We’re doing the drill, just like she showed us. I am in a self-defense class, in California. My case manager thought this would be a good thing for me, so I signed up.

My elbow jams backwards into padding.

Opfff, the man in the silver moon suit says, clutching his chest.

I scramble to turn and knee between his legs, then scramble backwards to kick the helmet again and again, until he brings his hands to his face in surrender just like during the demonstration.

Denise blows her whistle. Very good. Now what do you do?

I get to my feet, jerk my head around to look for other dangers, yell 911, and run back to the safety of the line.

The amber-eyed girl with hair the color of fresh yellow corn grins at me. That was awesome! she says.

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CHAPTER 5

RED TRAIL

My heart pounds as the others take their turn.

Some women fumble at first, like I did. The women on line yell encouragement:

Bite!

Kick!

Get him!

The girl with the amber eyes hollers louder than anyone. You can tell she can hardly wait to get onto the mat, though she is smaller than most everyone else here. I expect her to dive in the second Denise says, Missy's ready.

But when it is her turn, the girl with the corn-colored ponytail freezes.

Just like I did, the night I left the land of piñon pine and sage.

For a moment, I stared at the front door and screen open, not how I'd left them, stuff: clothes, furniture, books, my father's work table, our black rubber boots and tools, piled high on the ground.

Sometimes, when the wind shifts with unforeseen change, at first, you are confused.

But then, you have to act.

For a short while, in honor of those who crossed ice ages and land bridges to find a new place, I walked this way:  toe heel, toe heel...indian dancing...saying goodbye. Large wings above my head swooped low. There was a tiny scream as something gave up its life to something bigger.

Bird of prey.

Prey.

Even on wide open highways, darkness is a hunting time.

The pad between my legs soaked with essence rubbed my thighs raw, and the road stretched before me, an endless dark ribbon, lit only by moon. I could hear the ancients whisper.

Then I put all that behind me and strode forward, left foot, right foot, my boots swallowing miles.

In my mind, tiny red drops left behind me a trail that would be gone by morning.

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CHAPTER 6

TWILIGHT ZONE

There is a stillness in jackrabbits when they stop what they're doing, whiskers twitching, danger sensed...before they run.

Or, if it is too late to run, fight.

Bus stations in cities are usually not in the best parts of town.  I didn't know much, but I at least knew that.

So when I landed in California, after hours crammed in a box on wheels stuffed with too many people and not enough air, and got ejected into a dimension where buildings crowded out the sky, where streetlights flickered and cars honked, where city busses rumbled in a river rushing faster than the Rio Grande...a place where there was no dirt, no trees as far as the eye could see...where people lurked off to the side and lay right down on cement sidewalks with their coats for a blanket...where the air reeked of piss...I did not stay.

Instead, I used a bit more of the small amount of money I had to hop a city bus away from where the long-distance one had dropped me off. And, staring out the public bus window, not knowing what I was doing or where I was going, my insides continued to pound a rhythm that matched the wheels drumming against pavement below: I don't know where I am, I don't know where I am, I don't know where I am.

It was evening when I got to a neighborhood where people seemed to live. The flow when I got off there was more gentle strolling than rushing rapids as people in trench coats over suits rose in regular bursts from underground train stations and entered well-lit restaurants.

I joined the swirl, cold hands stuffed down into my pockets, less hungry for food than for a quiet place to be.

I ambled up side streets, following people who seemed nice to their narrow, pretty houses, continuing on past as they went inside.

With each hour, the darkness outside deepened as windows lit within buildings. Fewer people strolled, until, one by one, the house lights started blinking out. And I entered the Twilight Zone of night, which lasts forever when you have nowhere to be.

There are not more nighttime hours than daylight ones, though it seemed like there were. It had already been dark for awhile when I picked a stoop with a covered area by its front door to tuck myself out of sight.

I did not remove the knapsack from my back. Just sat, cradling Little Bear with his tiny medicine bundle in my cold hands, waiting for morning.

The hours dripped like slow molasses.

If someone on the prowl came along and spotted me and I called for help, would anyone hear and come? Or call the police?

I did not know where I was.

I didn't know what I would do tomorrow.

But at least I wasn't where I had been. I was somewhere where I knew no one, and no one knew me. That was something, I told myself.

There is a stillness in creatures when everything stops and they wait, senses twitching, not knowing if this is a time to run or to fight.

So I recognize it when the man in the silver suit grabs the girl in my class by her yellow ponytail, and for a moment, she does nothing.

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CHAPTER 7

TREE TRUNKS

He yanks her to him, laughing, and the girl dangles as the man in the silver moon suit lifts her up and swings her around.

Protect yourself! Denise hollers. He won’t stop unless you stop him!

Her legs flail, half-heartedly swinging back against the silver man's legs, which seem as sturdy and unshakeable as tree trunks, but he does eventually drop her, and down on the mat, she tries to crawl away.

Which we can all see is not the right thing to do...because the man grabs her around the waist from behind and starts fumbling with the tie on her sweatpants. If this was real life, not a class,